


closer to the edge

by chocobos



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-08
Updated: 2011-11-08
Packaged: 2017-10-25 20:28:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/274454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocobos/pseuds/chocobos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames is an innocent men on death row, Arthur is the lawyer that is determined to prove his innocence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	closer to the edge

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for an inception_kink prompt and it's about damn time I posted this here. There will be a sequel, though I'm not exactly sure when it will be up.

  
Eames was seven when he saw a man die for the first time.   


His father was heavily involved in crime and although it was an accident that Eames had walked into the room the moment the trigger was pulled, his father smiled at him like it was something to be celebrated. Nothing made any sense; why his father had killed a seemingly innocent man, why he seemed    
happy    
about it, why he was looking at Eames with pride.

His father was doing something to the body, then, and he rushed through it--that was probably mostly because of the fact that Eames had been watching, though.

Even if it was fast, Eames had memorized it perfectly: take some cleaning fluid to get rid of the blood on the carpet and the other surrounding areas (mum would flip otherwise), put the body into a garbage bag, and then put it in a trunk to be buried eventually.

The only time he could remember someone else dying was when his mum had been crying on the phone a few months earlier after they had gotten the word that Aunt Linda had passed. There had been a funeral, it was dreary and gray, but it was closure. It felt nice to go, even if they had to get torn apart by grief to get there

Unlike his aunt, something told Eames that the man his father killed probably wouldn’t get one, dreary or not.

Eames couldn’t recall one death that he had heard of--whether it be from stories from his mother, or through the TV that he barely watched--that was a happy one. He didn’t understand why this was different, but if there was one thing that he knew about his father back then, it was that he rarely followed trends. Taking someone’s life was not likely to change that.

“Don’t worry, sprog,” he said, pulling Eames into a one-armed hug with blood still on his hands. The smell of copper had filled his nostrils, and it made his stomach churn painfully. “Someday, you’ll be in my shoes, too.” It sounded like a promise.

For three weeks after that he had nightmares of his father killing countless people: his mother, his cousins, his best friends, Eames, and then finally himself. They were violent and the smell of blood was always present. The thing that struck him the most was that his father had always smiled after every murder.

After that, Eames vowed that he would never be the man that his father was.   
  


  
::::::   


  
Fifteen years later, Eames was on his way to getting convicted of a crime that he didn’t commit. Of course, no one believed that he was innocent, because all of the evidence--it being circumstantial, so far hadn’t mattered--pointed every arrow to him. He was stuck in the middle of a vicious circle that he hadn’t meant to be a part of in the first place, but somehow Eames had always been one to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.   


His father had long since passed away, but the words that he had spoken (“Someday, you’ll be in my shoes, too”) were whispered anyway--they were words that only he could hear. He was right, save for the fact that it wasn’t his crime. Instead, he was a suspect because he was conveniently at the scene.

He had been booked hours prior, when the police had knocked down his door telling him that they had reason to believe he was connected to the murder of a teenage boy. They were rough, and didn’t believe him when he said that he had nothing to do with it--because why would they believe someone like him?

Thirty minutes later he was being interrogated by a cop that was as rough as he was stubborn, and he didn’t believe a word that Eames had said. Because Eames was crazy, because he was guilty, because three witnesses had placed him at the crime scene at the time of the murder and Eames, who lived alone, had no solid alibi. To them, he had ruthlessly murdered a teenage boy execution style with a pistol. In reality, he hadn’t done anything.

Two hours into the questioning, a second detective entered the room with a different tactic than the other. He wasn’t threatening or using brute force, he was using knowledge about what Eames would face if convicted: life, possibly death, if the jury decided to not be forgiving, and because it was the case of a minor, they probably wouldn’t be. One of the detectives, at some point, grumbled something about denial, the other looked unimpressed, his eyes screaming what his mouth wasn’t:    
guilty   
.

Two hours later, he was awarded a phone call. He called the only person that he thought would miss him if he didn’t pick up the phone.

“Just like your dad, you are,” his mum replied. She sounded breathless, like she had been crying for a while. She probably had been. There was no doubt in Eames’ mind that she saw the news before he called her. The crime wasn’t one that he could avoid, even though he wanted to.

“Mum-” He started, and then he stopped. What could he really say? That he was innocent--and he was, he really was, but there was no one who would believe his word. Not the state, or the jury, or his own mother because she always predicted that he’d turn out like his father.

The crime was an excuse for her to hate him, too.

“I can’t talk now, Eames,” she said. He heard the clinking of glasses and liquid being poured.

He didn’t even blink; he knew that she was going to drink herself into a haze, where she could make up a false life for herself, to pretend that her reality was something that was solid and reliable. That her son wasn’t following her late husband that had been killed at his own game.

If only Eames could’ve done the same.

  
::::::   


  
The first time he met Arthur Levine, Eames was twenty-two.   


He was provided by the state of Florida, because Eames didn’t have enough money to get his own attorney. His family was used to the life of crime in the way that people were used to reality TV; it was something that they couldn’t escape. Most of them were still in England, too caught up in their own robberies and forgeries, which meant that they barely blinked when they heard that he was in prison. It had been expected, if anything.

The room they met in was white and unappealing; it reminded Eames a bit of a hospital. It was airy and clean, save for the splattered blood on the wall next to the door.The blood was dried and old; they probably only kept it there to elicit fear from the prisoners that attempted to cause harm. Luckily,Eames wasn’t one of those prisoners. There was a single table in the middle of the room, with two chairs and a guard was waiting by the door, keeping a watchful eye.

Everyone had been expecting Eames to break, whether it be because of the murder that they all thought he had committed, or because one could only keep a poker-face for so long. They were all hoping for him to finally get lost in the guilt that no doubt wracked his soul--there wasn’t guilt, only regret, which some would argue, might be a little worse. He regretted almost everything about that night, but it was leaving at all, that he regretted the most.

A man walked in a few minutes after Eames was escorted in, wearing a pristine suit, with his hair slicked back, his face neutral. Eames was a little surprised by this, the person that he had seen in his head was someone with too many problems on their hands, and no briefcase.

This man was the opposite. He looked confident and unfazed by the fact that Eames had supposedly just committed a crime that was horrific enough to make world headlines. The light in his eyes suggested that he was excited about the fact that Eames was his case.

“I’m Arthur,” he offered, holding out a pale hand.

Eames took it after a few moments. His grip was firm and sure; it was a stark contrast to everyone else who seemed to shy away from him since he had been brought here. “I’m Eames,” he said, like it wasn’t obvious who he was, what he had done (what he didn’t do).

“Nice to meet you,” replied Arthur, he sounded sincere. “I’m going to be your lawyer. . .obviously,” he added after a moment.

“I’ve gathered,” Eames said, a faint warmth building in his chest. He wasn’t sure why, as he told himself that he’d get through this without needing anybody. Arthur wouldn’t be the one to change that.

There was only so much that the government could make sure happened, and one of those things wasn’t the verdict of Eames’ innocence.

  
“I’ve specifically requested your case,” Arthur told him.

Eames blinked. “Why? Want to watch a man crumble?”

Arthur shook his head. “No,” he said, matter-of-fact. “It’s because I think that you’re innocent.”

That had    
not   
been what Eames had been expecting.

“Now,” Arthur said, looking at him expectantly. “Tell me everything.”

Eames did.

  
::::::   


  
Two weeks ago, Arthur told him that he wanted to try one more time. It had been thirteen years since Eames had been convicted guilty on all counts, sentenced to death. He has had good behavior, Arthur told him, there is no reason why they would deny his appeal.   


But Eames wasn’t that naive, inexperienced, bright-eyed boy, who was not yet affected by prison cells anymore. Now he’s thirty-five and he has enough experience to know that prison isn’t what he had pictured it to be. Nothing is as shiny as he once thought it was, the way that TV and movies had glamorized prison made it seem more like a vacation than isolation.

He had once thought that leaving prison would be reality, but as more days pass the more that hope is lost. The young man that had known he was up against an army when he was only one, now sees that guilty or not, after conviction, his fate has already been chosen.

It’s not in his favor.   
  
Eventually, he realizes the inevitable: he was here in prison to stay. It wasn’t so bad after you barely acknowledged being dehumanized with little-to-no rights--the showers that were always guarded, the way that he was checked for weapons every time he left his cell, either to hurt himself or others, the way that he wasn’t allowed to have paper or pencils in his rooms, for fear of him planning escapes.   
  
With the promise of the possibility of an appeal, Arthur also promised that his life would finally change.

Today he finds out if those words are going to end up being true.

“Elliot Eames,” the guard says, looking at him with stone-cold eyes. “Mr. Levine is here to meet with you.”

Eames nods and holds out his hands to be shackled, as his feet already are. The handcuffs are cold on his wrist, but aren’t tight enough to hurt. He isn’t even sure why they even use them on him anymore--he has had no violent outbursts of any kind--but they’re probably worried that if they give him an inch, he’ll take a mile.

He’s not quite sure if they’re completely wrong with that inference.

The walk is long and with each step he feels his heart thud in his chest a little faster, his palms get a little more wet. He usually doesn’t get worked up about the chances of getting an appeal because he knows that it’s useless. He feels good about this one, though, he thinks that this might be the one that will change everything.

Arthur is in the same room that they have been meeting in since they were first introduced, and it’s coldly familiar. “Mr. Eames,” he says, looking as perfect and impassive as ever.

Eames lets himself smile, something he seldom does. The only time he feels comfortable enough is when he’s around Arthur. “Arthur,” says Eames, taking the seat across from him.

“Your case is at nine on Friday morning,” Arthur informs him.

Eames nods. “Alright,” he says.

Arthur smiles at him, a rarity that he cherishes. “This is going to be a good one, Eames. This might be what we’ve been hoping for.”

It’s never occurred to Eames that this means just as much to Arthur as it does to himself. They’ve bonded in the way that he never thought possible, especially with his lawyer--how Arthur comes sometimes just to check up on Eames, make sure that he’s comfortable and okay, and other times he comes just to talk about absolutely nothing.

He had never asked for him to become the one person who never faltered, but it’s something that he appreciates all the same. All of the doubts that Eames had ever had about him were proven false.

It’s nice to have a friend again.   


  
::::::   


  
Arthur stops by the day before the trial. Eames isn’t sure why, but he’s happy to see him anyway. He has never really analyzed Arthur’s intentions through this entire case, one reason being that he was so focused on trying to prove his innocence that everything else had seemed insignificant. The other was because he had never really let himself get attached to anyone after he left his family. There was no reason to bring down someone else’s life with the influence of Eames’ family name as a relentless shadow.   


“Mr. Eames,” Arthur greets, cheeks dimpling, his posture more relaxed than Eames could ever remember.

Eames allows himself a small smile as he takes his seat across from Arthur. “Arthur,” he says. “

He is under no false pretense as to what this meeting is about, knowing that it’s probably just strictly business. He doesn’t want to dig himself into a whole without the means to get out of it.

“Tomorrow, at the trial,” he starts, “I want you to know that even if we don’t-”

Eames shakes his head. “Arthur,” he replies. “If we don’t get this appeal, I’m not appealing again.”

Arthur blinks. “What?”

“I don’t want to cause anymore trouble than I already have, yeah? They think I’m guilty, they’re obviously adamant about keeping me in here for some reason. Maybe I’m supposed-”

  
Arthur cuts him off. “No,” he replies. “You’re innocent, remember? There is no reason for you to be here.” He sounds angry, and he has every right to be. He’s fought just as hard as Eames has--if not more--and he wants to see a non-guilty verdict probably more than anyone.

“Alright,” he replies. “But I’m standing where I stand. This is the last time I’m appealing,” he says.

Arthur nods. “Fine,” he replies, knowing that he’s not going to get anywhere with Eames on this topic.

  
::::::   


  
They win their appeal, and Arthur hugs him. It’s nice, warm, and it’s the opposite of everything that prison is: cold, dark, lonely, where you hear screams at night because of the night terrors that wrack the other inmates. He allows himself to hug back, because even if they’ve won this round, there’s no say in who wins the other. This might be the only chance that Eames will be permitted to touch Arthur, and he’s going to take it in stride.   


Arthur dimples. “I’m going out for drinks,” he says, and goes to walk away. “Don’t worry, I’ll save you one.”

They both know what it means. It’s an invitation. Which means, that Arthur really believes that he’s going to be let go.

Eames is not quite sure if he agrees with him, but something ignites in his chest anyway.

  
::::::   


  
Eames meets Ariadne three days later.   


She’s provided by the state, and is a public defense attorney, much like Arthur is, only she’s on until the case is over. She doesn’t seem swayed on the issue of his innocence, but she doesn’t treat him with the indifferent disinterest that most of the other law figures that have passed through had in the past. She’s small and slender, pretty and eager, and it’s apparent that she’s new to her work. She’s bright as she is inexperienced, as far as Eames can tell, and he knows that she’ll be what they need. She might even be more.

“Ariadne Anderson,” she introduces, holding out a hand, watching him with the same careful eye that Arthur had when they had first met.

It’s as reassuring as it is unnerving. “Eames,” he replies.

She smiles, then. “It’s nice to meet you,” says Ariadne.

He nods. “Likewise.”

Arthur walks in then, loosening his tie, and looking frazzled. “Sorry, sorry, I’m late.”

And he is, by thirty minutes, something that Arthur has never been. Eames isn’t bothered by it, though, because lord knows what Arthur gets up to in his free time.

“It’s quite alright, Arthur,” Ariadne says before Eames can cut in. “Now, if we can discuss the case,” she offers.

“Can I?” He asks.

Eames nods. “Yes,”

Every time that Arthur has gotten here after Eames--mostly it is because of bathroom breaks, or phone calls that can’t be ignored--he has always asks for permission to sit. Eames doesn’t understand it beyond that it’s a gesture to earn Eames’ trust.

Maybe it isn’t anything else.

“Did you get everything?” Ariadne asks, looking over at Arthur expectantly.

“Pardon?”

“I had a talk with one of the rookies at the local police station,” Arthur starts, looking between Ariadne and Eames. “It seems as if they’ve uncovered some new information.”

She nods. “That’s why he was late. I would’ve been late too, but Arthur refused to let me leave you alone, for reasons that he refuses to admit.”

Eames shrugs. “No harm done,” he replies. “What’s this new information?”

“They’ve found some new evidence that wasn’t found before, lack of proper equipment and all of that,” he waves a hand, caught between excited and dismissive. It’s quite an odd gesture, really.

“New evidence against or for me?”

Arthur smiles, slow and sure. “For,” he says.

  


  
::::::   


The first time that Eames’ father went to prison, Eames was ten. He didn’t understand why his father had been taken in away in handcuffs that looked like they hurt, why his father hadn’t even spared him a glance. There were needles thrown about the room and empty syringes were next to them. When questioned, Eames’ mum lied and said that she had no idea that this was going on. But Eames could see that she was just trying to save herself. Either because she couldn’t stand to be away from Eames--which was highly doubtful, as she had never really shown that much affection for him before, but there was no doubt that she’d use him as an excuse anyway--or because she couldn’t stand to be in prison.

Either way, Eames spent that night picking up chunks of glass from the carpet because his mother smashed a bottle on the floor while she was drunk. He had learned to hate his family a little more that night, for choosing the life that they had, the one that they no longer could rid themselves, their lifestyle was what they hadn’t wanted to rectify.

He had locked himself in his room that night, with a glass of fizzy drink and books by melodramatic authors that he tried to pretend he could understand. The fizzy drink settled the unease in his belly, and the books took his mind off of what had just happened.

His father had left them, whether it was intentional or not, he had been stupid enough to get caught. And now Eames had to pick up the pieces of his mother that would never truly be there--because she would drown them in alcohol--to pretend that she was never shattered to begin with. He would have to deal with people talking at school, because there was no doubt in his mind that word would get around, especially with who lived in his neighborhood; the small, watchful eyes that had stayed in the shadows to watch his father get taken away.

It had done nothing to rectify his choice about not wanting to follow his father footsteps. If anything, it only strengthened them.

  
::::::   


  
Arthur stops by more frequently when there is a trial to prepare for. They spend hours going over what is and is not okay to say, should he choose to put Eames up on the stand to defend himself. So the fact that Arthur stops by one night when the visiting hours are almost over shouldn’t be surprising, the fact that Arthur is showing up to the meeting with blood on his hands, is.   


Eames blinks, unable to deny the fluttering in his belly, the one that is telling him that he needs to take care of Arthur    
now   
. “What’s happened?” He asks, thankfully, keeping his voice level.

Arthur shrugs, smiling sheepishly. “The bushes out front. Did you know that they have thorns on them?”

Eames shrugs. “Why were you in the-”

He cuts him off. “I dropped some papers, and my phone, and a couple of other-”

Eames laughs a little at this. “You do look a bit frazzled.” He says, before looking down at Arthur’s hands again, wanting to make sure that they’re not too badly scratched, as Eames’ mind tended to blow things like this out of proportion. “Are you sure you don’t need a bandaid or something?”

Arthur shakes his head. “No,” he replies. “I’m alright, really.”

Eames runs his fingers across the delicate skin anyway, wanting to make sure for himself. Nothing seems amiss, aside for the slight quiver that runs through Arthur’s fingers, one so subtle that he would’ve missed it if he wasn’t paying attention.

“Alright,” he eventually says, dropping his hands. He thinks that he sees disappointment flash through Arthur’s eyes, but it might just be the lighting.   
  
“Now, as to why I’m here,” he replies.

Eames nods. “Go ahead.”

Arthur laughs, like he was waiting for Eames’ approval all along, but they both know that he was. Arthur is strangely considerate for a lawyer, and usually only talks if Eames is willing to listen. It’s refreshing, and it’s one of the reasons why Eames is so very fond of the man.

“As you know,” Arthur starts, “the trial starts tomorrow. And I wanted to make sure that this is still what you wanted. I know that I’m shooting for you getting released, but I’m not so sure if you want to get out so much anymore.”

Eames raises his eyebrows, mildly amused. “Why would you say that?”

Arthur shrugs. “I’m just running through protocol, Eames. I don’t want to force you into something that you don’t want to do.”

Eames can’t help but be so utterly    
charmed   
by the man. Eames had known from the moment that he met Arthur that he was attractive, that he was smart, that there was more going on in his head than he let on. He built relationships with his clients--though Eames had been hesitant to believe that maybe it was just only him, the idea gained more likability as the years passed--that most lawyers wouldn’t do for the sake of staying professional. He’s sharp, sharper than most people, and is able to think fast on his feet, but underneath all of that is a man that is adorable, and it’s odd, as a man of his age shouldn’t be, but somehow he is.

He ducks his head a little, so Arthur can’t see the grin that lifts the corners of his lips, and waves a dismissive hand. “Arthur, I    
want   
this.” He insists, because he does. He just isn’t so sure if he believes that it’ll work this time. Every other time it hadn’t worked either, and he had bothered to have expectations, and now he’s just, not.

He doesn’t want to have the hope to be free if the wings aren’t able to carry him.

Arthur doesn’t bother to hide his grin. “Alright.” says Arthur, even though it’s obvious that he wants to say more.

Eames doesn’t ask, and Arthur doesn’t offer, and they fall into a relatively comfortable silence.

All things considered, it’s one of the best days Eames had ever had.

  
::::::   


  
The first morning of the trial, Eames’ nerves are escalated enough to engulf him entirely. He’s not the kind of person that lets himself get nervous, simply because he’s never really been the type. But prison has taught him to let go of his pride. It’s a place that strips you of it completely, and he’s gotten used to walking around his jail cell with his tail between his legs.   
  


He’s dressed in his prison uniform, which is itchy, scratchy, and almost too heavy, but it’s better than suits, he supposes. It’s certainly not the most luxurious piece of clothing that he’s ever worn, but it’s nice, in the regard that it’s the only thing he has to wear.

Arthur arrives five minutes before they leave for the courthouse.

He, of course, manages to look completely confident while managing to look gorgeous, as well. Next to Arthur, Eames looks nothing more than a man that is simply ordinary, one that someone wouldn’t give a second glance. It doesn’t bother too much, because he’s completely comfortable letting Arthur shine.

“Are you ready?”

Eames chuckles. “S’not like it matters, yeah?”

Arthur’s eyes darken for a moment. “If you’re not-”

“No, it’s not that. I’m just heartily sick of this, darling.”

Arthur’s smile reaches his eyes at this. “Well, no matter what, this’ll be your last time.”

“However true that might be, it doesn’t make me feel any better.”

  
::::::   


  
When Eames was younger, before his mother became an alcoholic, she used to read him books. Not the books that most parents read, but the books about philosophy, and Shakespeare, sometimes she’d even venture into stories about her own childhood. He didn’t quite understand them then, why people felt the compulsive need to kill themselves for the ones that they loved, but even then, he understood more than most.

His mother only read him the stories that she knew would help him, because living with a father who thrived on the act of spreading destruction wasn’t easy, even for someone so very small. It was nice though, when his mum would give him a cup of decaffeinated tea, and would tell him about the times when she would get into trouble as a child. Then, it was easy to view her as someone who had never failed. She was the person that shielded him from everything.

Soon Eames wasn’t enough to keep her mind off of living in fear, that her husband would turn up dead; no matter how fractured their relationship was, Eames had known that they loved each other. It was just that they loved crime and booze more. She turned to alcohol the day that Eames turned eight.

The stories stopped after then, and his days began to get darker.

That was when he really began to understand why people hated so strongly, as he had never hated anyone more than his parents for leaving him behind.

  
::::::   


  
“Is is true, that on the morning of September 21st, you saw the defendant at the crime scene?” Arthur asks.

The person on the stand, who is none other than the lady who had owned the supermarket where Eames had gotten the milk that night, looks nervous. She hadn’t looked nervous during the first trial, but a lot can change in nearly ten years.

“I think-”

Arthur cuts her off. “But didn’t you say that you were    
sure   
about it during the first trial?” He presses, his eyes ice cold.

She fumbles. “Uh, with all due respect, it was dark that night. . .”

He looks unamused. “So, it’s fair to say that you may have bent the truth a little, hm?”

“Objection!”

The judge looks as bored as Arthur does, and simply says, “overruled.”

Arthur tries to hide his smirk at this, but Eames can spot it from anywhere. He looks to the witness on the stand. “Go on,” he says, and if there’s a little sarcasm dripping from his tone, no one comments on it.

“I guess,” she says after a moment.

He nods. “And why did you lie about something like this?”

Eames is fidgeting in his seat, his fingers are restless in his lap, tearing off hangnails, and he’s tapping his foot relentlessly against the floor (   
thud, thud   
). This is the part about the trials that he hates, waiting for a verdict, sitting through the lawyers questioning witnesses and talking about their cases. It’s unnerving, the way that everyone seems so calm, not including him, at least.

She doesn’t say anything for a moment, simply stares at her hands in the way that Eames was doing a moment ago. Eames almost doesn’t expect her to answer, even though he knows that she has to.

“Honestly,” she whispers. “They paid me to.” She points at the prosecutors.

  
::::::   


During the first trial, hearing his conviction came as a shock. He knew that the likelihood of pleading innocent probably wouldn't happen, but there was a different between knowing and _hearing_ it, to Eames.

  
“Mr. Levine and Mr. Eames, could you please stand and face the jury?” The judge asked.

They both stood, Arthur flawlessly, Eames on shaky legs.

“In the matter of The People of the state of Florida v. William Eames, case number 39-1999-FD-048520-O, we the jury in the above entitled action, find the defendant, William Eames, guilty of the crime of first degree murder.”  

Eames’ mind didn’t process the verdict until Arthur looks over at him with anger and disappointment written all over his face. There was a suspended moment when everything stopped moving around him, when his heart gave out and almost stopped beating completely, as he was frozen in shock. He didn’t realize that there were tears in his eyes until Arthur’s hand was a warm, reassuring weight on his back. 

Eames mind went utterly blank after that, even when the cool metal of handcuffs pressed against his wrists.

  
::::::   


  
The days of the trial seemed to drag on for Eames. They eventually started to blend together, the questioning soon seemed as if they were the same questions asked on replay, the witnesses eventually all looked the same. He had no idea if this was from stress or insanity, but he was ready for it all to be over. Now, he’s to the point where he almost doesn’t care about the verdict that he’s handed, he just wants it all to be over with so he can get some sleep.

There’s something about being on trial that provokes insomnia, and being locked in an six by nine room doesn’t really promote a healthy sleeping schedule, either. There are bags under his eyes by day three, and by day twenty, he’s a walking causality.

During one of their private meetings, Eames almost crosses the line between incoherency and instability.

It’s a few days before his trial ends, and he knows from prior experience that everyone is running on pure instinct now, have been for a while. There is nothing left to salvage, no emotions, no sliver of hope, the only person that is keeping Eames from completely sinking is Arthur himself.

When Arthur walks in, he doesn’t say anything, as if he can sense that it isn’t what Eames needed right now. He had always been too observant for his own good, and this is one of the only times that Eames is actually grateful for it.

They don’t say anything for a while, and just his company is enough, enough for Eames to get the last hold on reality that he needs. He doesn’t know how long they stand there for, just looking at each other, saying everything that they couldn’t say with their mouths with a simple glance. It might have been hours, but he’s not counting.

It’s what they both need, and they don’t dare break the tension with words.

Before he leaves, Arthur hugs him, and Eames holds on like he can’t bear to let go.

(Arthur does the same.)

  
::::::   


  
On day twenty-eight, Arthur pulls him into a private meeting after his trial hearing.

The first thing he does is pull Eames into a hug, the next thing he does is make Eames sit down in a chair. For a moment it seems as if he might explode, start screaming obscenities at him that they both know will do nothing but release anger. Eames is up for it, mainly for the fact that he hates seeing Arthur so on edge all of the time. But he doesn’t, he’s perfectly controlled, perfectly stoic, so completely and totally    
Arthur   
, that it’s almost annoying.

His voice is gentle when he speaks. “How long has it been since you’ve slept, Eames?” He asks.

Eames shrugs. “A while.” He says, waving a dismissive hand.

Arthur shakes his head. “You need sleep.”

He narrows his eyes. “So do you.” He retorts. They both know that it’s empty, but it was too heavy to keep on his tongue, anyway.

“I’m a lawyer, I’m supposed to have no sleep.”

“Ariadne sleeps.”

Arthur laughs, but it’s to the point of almost being humorless. “Ariadne is just starting out. She’s only been on this case for a month. I, however, have been on it for almost ten years.”

Eames purses his lips. “Well, I hate to think that you’ve lost sleep because of me, love.”

“It’s worth it,” says Arthur, and from the look that crosses his face, it seems as if he almost hadn’t meant to say it.

“Can I ask you something?” Eames asks, after a couple minutes of silence.

The silence took the edge off of the tension that was between them. It was nothing between them, but rather the trial, which had been sucking life out of them both. It wasn’t easy, trying to be handed the non-guilty verdict, but Eames knew that it was Arthur that kept him from falling apart.

Arthur who had been there for him every step of the way, offered a hand wordlessly when needed, had known when to speak and when to keep quiet, who had been keeping him from going completely insane for years.

He knows that he’ll owe him for more than his life, if he gets out.

“Of course,” Arthur replies, and finally takes a seat down across from him.

“In the beginning,” he starts, “you told me that you knew that I was innocent.”

He nods. “Yes.”

“Why? I mean - how did you know?”

Arthur smiles then, fond and sure. It makes something in Eames’ stomach twist. “I knew it from the moment that I saw your face plastered all over the news. Most criminals you can tell, right off the bat if they’re guilty or not, because most of them are stupid and excrete self-righteousness, but you didn’t. You were humble. Your eyes were dull and sad, they weren’t the eyes of a criminal.

“Plus,” he adds after a few moments. “You’re intelligent. I don’t think you would do something as stupid as murdering someone right where anyone could see.”

Eames raises an eyebrow. “You couldn’t have known that I was intelligent just by my picture.”

Arthur blushes, then. “Ah, no, but I did do some Internet research on you when I saw you were in need of a defense attorney.”

“That’s oddly endearing,” he says, before he can quite stop himself.

Arthur just grins at him. “So, that’s how I knew.”

Eames waves a dismissive hand. “You’re so full of shit,” he says. And he’s kidding. Mostly.

“I’ll never lie to you, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says, and it sounds like more than just a promise.

“Yeah?” Eames asks, his eyebrows running into his hairline, because sometimes he just can’t control his emotions, no matter how hard he tries.

He meets his eyes. “I promise you.”

Arthur keeps the promise.

  
::::::   


  
Eames and Arthur had almost kissed, once.

It was three years after the guilty verdict, when Arthur had wanted Eames to place his first appeal. He had waited so long because he didn’t see the reason why to immediately appeal, even if he didn’t belong here. Plus, his logic had told him that the longer he had waited, the more chances there would be to actually have it work.

(The logic was wrong.)

It was late February, and even in the high-temperature weather, Arthur was dressed in a sweater and nice slacks. His hair was loose and free of product, which Eames had only seen one other time--which was the morning after his conviction hearing.

Needless to say, it wasn’t out of question for Eames to suspect that he was here on bad terms.

“Good morning, Arthur,” said Eames.

Arthur smiled at him in a way that had his dimples showing. Eames’ chest tightened at the sight, but he tried not to think about it, because it had not been the right time to notice how attractive his defense attorney was.

“Mr. Eames,” Arthur greeted.

“Eames,” he said.

Arthur shrugged. “Mr. Eames,” he began, “I think it’s time for you to appeal.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Eames’ eyes darkened. “I’m just not convinced that it’ll work.”

“The more time you wait, the more guilty you look, Eames.”

So, there went his logic.

“In your professional opinion,” started Eames, and if he was being a little cocky about it, Arthur didn’t comment on it, he simply smirked, like he had found this amusing. “What do you think my chances are?”

Arthur looked over at him. “I think they’re good. You were convicted mostly by witnesses whose stories didn’t match up all of the time, and that one shirt that was found to have blood on it, but that doesn’t make a very strong case.”

“How do you know that I hadn’t worn that shirt?”

Arthur grinned, then, and there were those dimples again. Those dimples that were, no doubt, going to be the death of him. “That shirt was much too nice to be owned by you,” he stated, simply, like it was obvious and that Eames had been missing the point the entire time.

Eames had the audacity to look wounded. “Oh, Arthur, that hurt.”

Arthur shrugged. “In all seriousness though, I think you have a solid chance. The only reason you wouldn’t get it is because the prosecution might feel like you have too strong of a case to not plead guilty again.”

“But the prosecution has nothing to do with what the judge decides.”

Arthur nodded, his lips stuck on a smile. “Which is why you have absolutely nothing to worry about.”

It was one of those romance movie moments where they just sat there smiling at each other, and it felt good, because Eames had rarely let himself smile--not that he had been much of a smiler anyway--, it felt    
natural   
. It was cheesy and overdone; way too cliche for his tastes, but it felt right in the way that just being around Arthur did, and the other man was obviously having no qualms about it.

For a moment, Eames was naive, thinking that maybe Arthur would kiss him. But he knew that he wouldn’t, because that would’ve been blending the lines between something professional, and something that was just not. He knew that Arthur wouldn’t take that risk, even for him, no matter how much they wanted to.

That didn’t explain why he was pretty sure that Arthur’s face was getting closer to his.

And Eames knew that he would’ve closed the distance, had it not been for a bell sounding overhead, signaling that there was something amiss with an inmate or two. They jumped apart fast, and an excuse was tumbling out of Arthur’s mouth before they both could process it.

“I’ve got to go,” he blurted, “I have a meeting with another client in a few hours, and he’s an hour away on good traffic.”

Eames nodded, trying to remain nonchalant, but inside he was buzzing with want, and adoration, and possibly a little annoyance too. It was harder to mask than he thought it would be. “Of course.”

Arthur nodded, his movements jerky. “Alright. Um, just think about what I said,” stuttered Arthur, before he left the room and was gone.

The bell was just added to the ever growing list of things that Eames hated, starting with his parents, and ending with pickles.

  


  
::::::   


  
On day thirty-two of his trial, Eames receives the verdict.

“In the matter of The People of the state of Florida vs Elliot Eames, case number 39-1999-FD-048520-O, we the jury in the above entitled action, find the defendant, William Eames. . .”

He doesn’t want to face the disappointment that happened last time, when he was so overwhelmed that he almost couldn’t physically take it, so he blocks out everything. He knows that he won’t be able to hear the verdict either way, because both are life changing. On one hand, he’d have to live with the fact that he would never get the chance to be a free man again, that he would, no doubt, die at the hands of the government that has betrayed him. On the other, he’d be a free man, able to walk the streets for the first time in years, will finally get to see one of those iPhones that Arthur is always talks about.

And then there is Arthur.

Arthur, who has been his rock throughout this entire trial. Arthur, the one who he misjudged and had let his prejudices cloud the truth: that he had been on his side all along. Arthur, who was his defense attorney, the one that he had never planned to fall for, but somehow had managed to do so anyway.

Even if he doesn’t get the freedom that he wants, he knows that he’ll always have Arthur. It’s somehow is enough.

He doesn’t hear the verdict, but when he looks over at Arthur, there are tears in his eyes, and the smile on his face is nearly too blinding to see.


End file.
